My Man

Why do I love the man that I love? Because, he ran after that Sikh man clad in a half-sleeve shirt in the foggy, foggy nights of the wintry season that was. While I swerved the car into a calmer and lonely spot, my man, he navigated the honking cars and the twinkling headlights to find that Sikh man. I lost my man in the rear-view mirror. But I had lost that Sikh man five minutes before.

As that Sikh man with his trove of incense sticks had approached us, I had whipped out a tenner in a chronic demonstration of magnanimity. But that Sikh man had thwarted my gesture in a sweeping statement that made me stop breathing for a second, but only for a second. He said but didi, I will not accept your charity, buy instead some of my incense sticks. But how could I part with my bunch of tenners when I had others to hand them out to? I needed a second to think! But that Sikh man had handed over a box of sticks, taken the tenner and moved on swiftly while the signal stayed a searing scarlet. My face crumpled.

And amidst my heaving sobs that had eyes from without fixated within (but could they really see into me?) my man, he took a deep breath, asked me to wait for him at the corner, turned, opened the door, and walked out purposefully. I turned and waited in my calm, lonely spot. Headlights whizzed by, and the night sky pressed heavy onto my heart. I waited in anticipation. What might happen? Were more incense sticks destined to exchange hands? Or were they to stay firm in search of a more wanting home? What would I do with them anyway? Maybe part with them as an exotic souvenir? Maybe never light them and forget their purpose entirely? Or was the night sky in favour of that Sikh man? Was he going to end the day with a bolt from the vault? Was he finally going to buy himself some warmth? Or was he too far away already to be found in the crowded, chaotic confusion that surrounded?

My heart was beating, it was impatient. I peered into the rear-view mirror again and I spotted him, my man. He was walking towards my parking lights, he had seen me. But I couldn’t understand what his gait possibly communicated. Incense sticks? That Sikh man? Who won? Who lost? Was any of this really about that?

He opened the car door and slipped in. Handed me packs and packs of incense sticks. Rubbed his hands, it was freezing. I smiled. It was really about this. This very moment that melted my heavy, beating heart in a sweeping show of serendipity. I had my man beside me, and I wanted to stay just a while longer. Forever ,if possible with this kind, loving man that he is. I started the car.

The night sky was on my side.

NOSTALGIMMICKS

I know I haven't told you, but I have had rather intimate ties with theatre. While co-directing a play two years ago for the theatre group Dramanon (which incidentally has its reach in Manipal, Bangalore and Hyderabad if you are interested) I had written a heartfelt Director's note. I suddenly found it and am reproducing it here to gain your acceptance a tad bit more. I am kidding.

Here in it's original and undiluted form:

It all began that bright, sunny afternoon when Dramanon converged at our revered rendezvous point; the script was decided upon, some dates finalized, designations nominated…and we were rolling again! And thus, ensued a recycled reaction of regular entertainment, daily jokes, frequent bouts of stress and screaming sessions, intermittent paranoia and the eleventh-hour chaos…

The script impressed me from the start. It was simple, warm and celebrated a wonderful intimacy between characters so real and so exaggerated. The humour catered to every genre-slapstick, cinematic, situational and even the pun patronizing types! The moral was not preaching, yet explained so much. And we had the pleasure of working with some very intelligent actors, who could interpret their characters beautifully and slide into their skins with the utmost ease. Even when we made them repeat their dialogues again and AGAIN, they flitted through with a smile on their faces. And when we would get down and dirty with the tiresome psyche of the characters they would listen patiently and improve tremendously. A truly talented bunch…my heartfelt gratitude.

The production team leaves EVERYTHING for the last minute, and in those last hours ticking away mercilessly, works day and night sacrificing sleep, food and mental sanity to leave no stone unturned. They are the real heroes behind the scenes…my heartfelt gratitude with whipped cream.

And finally my co-director. Dramanon had a bipolar-director-disorder going with Dhruv and me arguing over few things, and agreeing over fewer! But this guy is something! Immensely capable and definitely cooperative…my heartfelt gratitude with whipped cream and cherry on top.

And now presenting to you my swan song…

Sigh. Good ol' days.

INCREDIBLE INDIA

After a really, really long time I introduced some colour into my drab, corporate-corrupt life. I was contemplating exit routes in my soporific yet stay-put-till-it-is-time-to-go-home environment and fleeting through random sites when suddenly I hit the Incredible India website. Pause.

The site is attractive to say the least. There is colour of every possible hue and tone, all co-existing in a riot of contrast. And it makes such a difference to note that, our country with all its diversity is represented and packaged in a manner completely befitting.

What is certified genius though, is the concept of Microsites. We have entire portals dedicated to such offerings as Indian Heritage, Crafts of India, Come to Paradise…We are routed to striking interfaces complete with extensive facts, figures, fairs and festivals.

Incredible India is a very guided site. The home page itself offers you a composite view of pretty much all that the site has to offer. The photography is exquisite, the colours are vivid and rich, navigation is simple and a pleasure! I therefore recommend – traverse then travel. Incredible India will leave you yearning for more.

OF THE LAST MUGHAL AND GREATNESS

There are times when you encounter art, artisans, arti-ness and a subjugating feeling of acute dwarfness overpowers you?
Like when you are sitting a bloating, gloating Indian for all purposes on paper, and along comes a William Dalrymple, a Scottish enamoured by the great city of Delhi (he compares the history, the culture and the aura with that of Constantinople and Cairo) and more so, by the little remembered (No, the Taj Mahal doesn't count as Mughal-only memory) House of Timur and it's descendants.

The Last Mughal who Suraj thought was Aurangzeb, who you might not remember either, who my grandmum remembered as 'The Great Bahadur Shah'. Bahadur Shah Zafar - The Last Mughal. Great? As the ripe and feeble octagenerian, greatness of strategy and strenght of conviction and mind was the last thing that could be attributed to the old and fragile man. He remains buried with a less-than-monumental architectural excuse remembering his death and inhaling his forgotten, decaying life in Burma.

Of the greatness of the 1857 Mutiny that many remember as the first armed assault against the East India Company for freedom from colonisation and an implicit incarceration. But which for all its misconstrued greatness remained a religious revolt. An initial pre-dominant Hindu army making its way to the great city of Delhi, seeking the hollow blessings of a puppet Mohameddan king (Bahadur Shah Zafar), and rising in revolt to protest against the cartridges rubbed with cow and pig fat. The revolution that killed every British man, woman and child in sight, that resisted the British army for 4 months, that starved and strived and put up a worthy fight, that plundered the city of its riches and its dignity, that disrespected the very idea of a great Mughal king. The revolution that started swaying dangerously towards becoming an out-and-out Jihadi revolution.

But the one thing that was great about the Last Mughal was his ability to recognise and regard the Hindu-Muslim unity, and to persevere to retain that very unity to stand up against the kafirs - the British. An eighty year old man lost in the chaos about him, increasingly aware of the dying line of Timur, seeking solace in his poetry, his beautiful verse, struggling but only so feebly to restore the dynasty that ruled Hindoostan for more than three centuries.

But he failed. He could not stem the depradation, the plundering, the carnage about him. Great then? Broken and weak when the British finally conquered the city and reversed the tables. The depradation, plundering and carnage continued. But under a different army, a different colour. No, there was nothing great about the Last Mughal, the 1857 Mutiny or its rapacious and rambunctious armies.

The only greatness is displayed by Dalrymple himself. For falling in love with the city of Delhi, the story of the Mughals and their white counterparts. For investing time and effort, blood and sweat to go through dying accounts of the 1857 Mutiny and to reconstruct the horrors, the helplessness and the history. For being not an Indian and feeling like one, for being but a Scottish and proud as one, for being a true Sufi artist and only loving. Greatness? That is William Dalrymple.

I LOVE GIVING GRE...

...especially when I click on that fear-inducing, minatory monster of a button ['Click this and you CANNOT cancel your score'], inhale-exhale in quick, efficient burts and peer through my narrowed eyes trying desperately NOT to see...
But, wait...hang on...noooo...I did well?? Eeeep. [My latest Calvin inspired ejaculation]

Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Exhale.

And its true. I managed to whip some pretty ass. And I tell you this, it feels mighty good :)
Life looks good. Beloved friend is flying up north to induce some frolic into my post-GRE life. And beloved parents are flying me up norther [and mostly wester] to lovely, lovely exotic lands. Beloved hair from the hirsute-y body has been removed amidst much cringing. And beloved dresses can be donned again!
And the Osian film festival comes to Delhi on the 20th! Last year I sat beside pretty-miss-perfect Raima Sen and watched The Bong Connection [yes! An entire year before it was commercially released]. It was great fun, as I sat there in the dim auditorium ensconsed most comfortably in a palpable environment of bongness. Not as much from the movie [no, it was not as bong as expected...what a pity], as from the excited Bongs all around me. Talkative maashis (aunties), somber kakus (uncles) and big-eyed baccha log (youth junta). I remember myself smiling a lot.

I have been a regular at the Osian film festival for the past two years. I have watched all kinds of movies; Iranian, Chinese, Indian; silent, colourful, vulgar; and I am so glad it comes now into my wonderfully free life. There is a God.

So I shall be posting my reviews soon. But never judge a book by its cover, or a movie by missquoted's blog entry. Maybe I will see you at the film festival then :)

NOLANISMS

Managed to squueze in 'Following' by Christopher Nolan recently. That brings my Nolan grand total to 3 - Memento, The Prestige and yus yus, the afore mentioned. So I have assumed the role of a despairing dilettante and proceed to spew forth my observations.

Nolan has a signature style. Obsessed protagonists who are battling their demons, and all the while Chritopher Nolan is exultantly disregarding chronology. Oh, chronology! Nolan paces back and forth in time, builds up a crescendo of confused events and conflicting appearances, only to end with those precious moments of clarity (although I DID have to watch Memento twice. Erm.)

Nolan's movies have to be watched and regarded with concentration. Else you will miss a beautiful line here, an ostensibly insignificant glance there that will strike you later once the jigsaw pieces fit.

Take for instance, The Prestige ( spoiler beckons so proceed ONLY at your own risk). When Hugh Jackman is reading Christian Bale's journal he cannot for the life of him understand why Bale does not claim responsibilty for his wife's death. Only when Jackman realises that Bale had had him the entire time, are you transported back to that seemingly inconspicuous line. Lovely lovely.

For the record I liked The Prestige the most. It was racy. The concluding minutes were fanatstic with the characters and the audience alike revelling in sudden realisation. And the moment of 'abracadabra' was phenomenal. No, seriously.

Following was interesting. The beginning of the movie very discreetly gives away the apparent similarities of the protagonists, revealing its significance in the conclusion. And then onwards begins the story of obsessive stalking. I would have enjoyed it more thoroughly though had I not already watched a cheap Bollywood imitation starring Kareena Kapoor, Shahid Kapur and Fardeen Khan (but the scene of the bullet knocking off Kareena Kapoor's hair bun was killer!! Every pun intended :))

And there you have it. My Nolanisms.

PRE-RAPHALITED!!

Just when I was settling down into a comfortable relationship with the great Impressionist movement; declaring my favourites, recognising the Renoir reproductions at my place, differentiating a Monet from a Manet, a Vang Gogh from a Duncan, understanding how the sun shimmers in the painting that started it all, and staring down from the elongated sides of my olfactory nemesis at anything vaguely Dali [although Escher sits pretty on my blog].....I discovered the Pre-Raphaelites. And so lord, bless us all.
Love at first sight happened when I picked up a copy of Pre-Raphaelite reproductions for my ol' man. I liked the reproductions and 'twas inexpensive to procure it [as is the case with most of 'em men hooking up with 'em ladies. Hmph.] and if truth be told, I did not give it much thought. But then I was destined to return to the bookstore in my usual I-have-the-time-but-little-money-to-spare-to-buy-books mode and I was browsing through a catalogue of Pre-Raphaelite art. And I discovered this [please do click on it for a mind-numbing moment of raw helplessness].



Ophelia! Ophelia! Sweet, frail, glorious Opehlia! I rushed to pick up a copy of Hamlet [actually I picked up ALL of the four great tragedies] and returned home to devote my new I-have-the-time-but-NO-MONEY-to-spare-whatoever mode to Googl-ing. And I present you with this.
Turns out the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood were a group of seven English painters, poets and crtitcs who sought fit to reject the affectations of the Mannerists [Raphael and Michaelangelo followers] and 'reproduced on canvas what they saw in nature'.
This was their only discriminating feature. Albeit the principles of the brotherhood were laid down in four declarations:

1. To have genuine ideas to express;
2. To study Nature attentively, so as to know how to express them;
3. To sympathise with what is direct and serious and heartfelt in previous art, to the exclusion of what is conventional and self-parading and learned by rote;
4. And, most indispensable of all, to produce thoroughly good pictures and statues.

These declarations however, were far from stringent, as the Pre-Raphaelites were generous to the individual idea and flair. And although the 'study of nature' lent a very real element to their work, the brotherhood was to eventually split into two; the Realists and the Medievalists who incorporated a spritual perspective in their work. The split, it is claimed, was never absolute but the difference in the work is glaringly obvious.

So, right now I am also hooked onto Hamlet. The moon is the 'moist star' since it governs the tidal waves. Loverlieeeeeeeeeee.

Double whammy did I hear you say??

MOVIE MANIA II

I managed to edge in two movies last weekend into my raucously busy schedule of imbibing, imploring and immaculate lethargy.

First I caught The Namesake in Bangalore. I did not like it in the least. The book was authored with a slower pace that unravels the story of Gogol Ganguly over the years with certain details stretched thin to leave behind that indelible impression; for instance his first trip to India was important in the sense that it made for academic comparisons to the next trip on the death of his father. But the movie progressed at breakneck speed leaving little room for me to grasp and understand. It disappointed albeit the Bongness put a smile on my face. Annaprashun, and the traditional Bong wedding with the odd white makeup on the bride's and groom's faces made me yearn for papta maach, goopi gayan and erm....Oh! Calcutta.



Didn't do the book justice. Although Irfan Khan was tremendous, Tabu was fine, Kal Penn cute ;-). And was that Moshumi chick steaming hotttttttt, killer legs! Ahem.




I followed it up with 12 Angry Men. And boy, was that some watch. A movie that starts in the courtroom, continues in the jury room and ends on the steps of the courthouse. With 12 (yes angry!) men who divulge not names, not occupations, not any other details that begin to define us as who we are. Nothing except stark and strident reactions. The camera focuses on an individual from time to time for 5-7 seconds, which is absolutely fatal in theatre (focussing the audience's attention on one actor that is), but which just beautifully describes the jury. And we feel an intimate connection with each, trying to understand and defend their actions.
And Joseph Sweeney was much the adorable ol' fella with a piercing glare and larger than life countenance. Provided with some (un)intentional comic relief. Me liked very , very much.
The movie incidentally is adapted from a play and was nominated for 3 Oscars. And it depicts that how often we see just the grime on the glass, and forget to wipe it and see through. Comes highly recommended.




And speaking of recommendations Yann Tiersen has captured my imagination. Google for more details. Watch Amelie for further. And succumb to melodious sin. Sigh.

MUSIC AND THE LYRICISM OF IT ALL

‘And when wind and winter harden
All the loveless land,
It will whisper of the garden,
You will understand.’

-Oscar Wilde

Of the beauty of words, and the sensation blithe that pervades et al; I finally convinced my prejudiced and provincial self to concede to listening to some instrumental music [italics reflect big nose scrunches and cheeky cheeks acrobatics]. That was some months ago. I began with the tried and tested [and inherited] classical paraphernalia and gradually progressed to Satriani and the likes. And every time I heard a piece which engaged in an ‘irreconcilable differences’ attitude with its nomenclature, I would be terribly disappointed.
I was listening to girl in a blue dress* today and I love it! Except it sounds like a woman with short, tidy hair in a grey suit. Walking in an unsullied metallic environment with a determined glint in her intense eyes. Terribly disappointed #1.
But then there is whale and wasp by Alice in chains. Which sounds exactly like what the name suggests.
[but the wasp is a fairy in my head…*grins*]
And of course butterfly etude by Chopin, and it is so fast yet contained…you know how a pretty, colourful butterfly will flit from pretty, colourful flower to pretty, colourful flower.
The funeral march by Chopin again…get it, listen to it, my over-elaborate lexicon shall not help. Terrific.
Traveler [Szerelem pay heed] by Satriani is too furious. Whatever happened to the placid tales of travel, the walk on the sand, the inhaling of the sharp mountain air?? Satriani sounds like he is in on his Hayabusa forging onwards to rape some pretty, colourful Japanese chickitas [but I likeeeeeee Satriani, in spite of his naming transgressions]. Terribly disappointed #2.
Saying goodbye aint half bad…redemption rocks! Starry, starry night is perfecto!

I could go on. But a gossip session awaits with some pretty colourful chicks. Do comment.

*yes I do NOT know who it is by. Any help will be appreciated and NOT remunerated.

DEAR DIARY

I am petulant and irascible after sadly outlandish supplications for attendance. 75% is preposterous. No, really.
I attempted some tried and tested techniques of de-stressing.
a) Bumped into Gagan and Prashanth at the canteen who combined forces with Ara to create a sufficiently jocular atmosphere. The subject was me. I laughed. For a bit.
Grrr…
b) Tried writing about relevant topics and significant themes. You know how writing helps you unwind.
Grrrrrrrr….
c) Started listening to a lot of classical music. Can’t wait to tell my dad that I love Catch-22 and appreciate Figaro’s Wedding and The Moonlight Sonata. Maybe it will be easier to get that expensive phone now…
Grrrrrrrr….woof!

But the actual purpose of this inadequate post is to mention what I have been listening to lately.

a) Beethoven’s 5th Symphony – sunny, tiptoeing, climactic and overplayed.
b) Schubert’s Symphony 5 – twilight, the hills, the horizon, dancing in white...the sound of music…hmmmm…
c) Mozart’s Figaro’s Wedding – abandon.
d) Maria Callas’ Figaro’s Wedding – free.
e) Bach’s Brandenburg Concert no. 3 – people, pace, suspenders and top hats ;-)
f) Beethoven’s/Mozart’s Moonlight Sonata – moody. My personal favourite, comes highly recommended.
g) Ravel Bolero is excellent. Most excellent.
h) Oh and Oasis’ Don’t look back in anger is on repeat [spot the odd man out!!]

They call it association, or something esoterically technical like that. This is a ridiculous post. Too personal.
I am petulant and irascible.
You had been forewarned.
Goodbye.

LOST IN TRANSLATION

Something I have been meaning to do for a really long time.

Khalid Hosseini in The Kite Runner asks, ‘Is it harder to suffer the loss of a loved one than to suffer the loss of your entire universe?’ [And I do not quote verbatim here.] The question is an almost rhetoric before some thought is devoted to it, but I personally feel that the bereavement of your home, your surroundings, and your familiarity is a formidable loss. Because along with the structural domain you lose every single person, every single object of your affection contained within. Once you lose your foothold in your space, the disorientation can be overwhelming.
In Lost in Translation the protagonists Charlotte [Scarlet Johansson] and Bob [Bill Murray] have left their homes, their universe behind and have traveled halfway across the world to land in Japan. There is a scene where Bob is standing in an elevator, an entire foot higher than all the Japanese around him. And another [one of my favourites] where Charlotte watches a Japanese bride, a slight smile on her face, perhaps believing that marriages are easier in a different country. Their sense of loss and misgivings in an alien land is therefore explicable, yet is only completely understood once their personal stories are unraveled.

Theirs are not tragic stories, of an unhappy childhood or a loveless marriage. Bob is an actor with enough credibility to land up with an endorsement in Japan. While Charlotte is a Yale graduate who gets married to her sweetheart. We are exposed to no financial crises or domestic violence, no anger or fatalities. The only inkling of trouble in paradise is the explicit comfort of their respective spouses, comfort that tends to detach them from the sudden intensity of emotions that Bob and Charlotte experience in a foreign land.
That is one of the reasons I love the movie. I have friends who exclaim, “There is no story!” And they are right. It is not a conventional yarn with a beginning, a body and an ending. There is ONLY a body. Daily, prosaic events that leave in their wake indelible impressions and make a moment magical. When Bob and Charlotte are just lazing around in bed, talking about where they grew up, how difficult marriage can get, the excitement and terrible apprehension on becoming a parent…and they fall asleep with Bob’s hand resting tenderly on Charlotte’s foot. It is an ordinary gesture after an ordinary conversation, but it lends an extraordinary profundity to their relationship. Throughout the movie there is nothing remotely sexual about their relationship. Even when Bob sleeps with another woman, the jealousy that Charlotte feels is probably an outcome of her inadvertent possessiveness, she seeks solace from the fact they need each other in equal measure in a friendship that germinates from chronic insomnia and a discriminating loneliness.
The movie is “Slow!” because it is about two people who are in an alien land and nothing exciting is happening to them. I mean they are partying, getting shot at and singing with a rare abandon at the karaoke. But there is no passion, or wild sex or infidelity issues, which actually would be a forgivable sequence of events given the circumstances. Albeit the differences in their ages and lifestyles, they are brought together in a rare relationship of familiarity and comfort. The movie progresses in mellow hues and reflective undertones. Even when Charlotte is injured, it is a minor foot injury and warrants no excitement. Understated and beautiful.
My favourite scene in the movie is the last one where after the fumbling attempts to bid each other adieu, Bob spots Charlotte in a crowd and runs to her to say that final goodbye. He whispers something in her ear [I have no idea what! Believe me I have tried to listen] after hugging her close. And then he kisses her, and whatever he says to her becomes inconsequential because after days of communicating through words this is the first time he communicates through an intimate physical gesture. In that moment they both realize that ‘they have been found’ in the truest sense of the expression. And then they walk away, knowing they will never see each other again…
Real, rare and rapturous.

‘They went halfway across the world to come a full circle.’
I hope I have convinced you Pai ;-)
Oh and must note, Lost in Translation has a beautiful OST. I am guessing that’s signature Coppola.